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What is poetry, if not a form of artistry, looking for beauty, through the calamity?
Why do we waste rhymes and peoples time just for us to shine in the spotlight of our own iniquity?
We stand up here to rant to open ears hoping that out tears were not shed in vain.
Speaking of stolen dreams, evil things, times of struggle and strain.

Have we become nothing but moans and groans; whining, begging joy be shown,
Becoming the clowns of our towns speaking foolishly trying to sound profound?
Giving loud barks out of the dark hoping to spark a light for ourselves,
Encapsulated in a prison with no vision past our imaginary box and it's shelves.

Our pens bleed the the story of failure and glory but seems to always fall short of the truth.
It's been buried to deep for us to query, for the shovel of falsehood has thrown the dirt having the lie take root.
Growing, stealing and masquerading with masks of what was long forgotten in the elegant dialect of our rant. 
Leaving no way to be freed, no revolution to lead, left with only one word to proceed, can't.

A poet could be and should be a constant escapee from the prison of catastrophe,
Emerging through the strife enjoying life, it's beauty and all its quirky abnormality. 
Our lexicon is a gift to build on expressing the bond between our mind and reality,
Not only it's tragedy or gravity of pain, but, also the silent whisper, of the muted majority.

So let what we say be a ray of hope, not torment, for poetry is not for us,
It's to help rebuild, and shield our readers, so they have something to trust.
For a poet with no order is like a country with no borders, unstable and unable to grow,
Easily uprooted with happiness looted, left for no hope to grasp at or show.

Let us sharpen our tongues and strengthen our lungs, for all we have is our breath,
To influence the world giving imaginations a whirl with creative writes, not only of death.
For what we speak comes to life, whether it be of strife or delight, for our pens depict our destiny,
For what we say paves the way we react on the days of struggle and joy for eternity.

Remember each time your pen blots a line, that it is a crime to write only of despair,
For our readers deserve to read something undisturbed, for our words can impale like a spear. 
Any person can write, but to be a delight, that is a thing only a poet can do.
So let's return to the past and our passion cast the enchanting words that we all once knew.

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